Vegas Vacation 3: Highway to Hell − 9 May, 1999
We took our time getting up and going this morning. Eventually, we sat down for a nice breakfast Cheryl made for us. My brother-in-law was still giggling about the meatloaf. He even asked if there were any leftovers we could take with us. My wife cowed him with a glare.
I suddenly had visions of my wife as Darth Vader, using the Force to choke the shit out of some belligerent underling.
We were on the road at a decent enough hour that we decided to stop at Mesa Verde. The weather was much better than the last time we were here, and more of the park was open.
And no terrifying driving conditions.
I'm a little bit of an archaeology wanna-be (yeah, the worst kind of geek), so I really found the ruins fascinating. It utterly amazes me how little is known of the people who once lived here. I could get into some long-winded discussion and speculation at this point, but you'd stop reading out of sheer boredom and disinterest.
One of the sites we stopped at (Spruce Tree House) had a steep, paved, switchback trail that led down to the ruins. It was a nice stroll down and then around the ruins, but the hike back up was brutal. It seemed like the trail would never end, and it kept getting steeper and steeper.
It got to be too much for my brother-in-law and he cracked. Near the final fifty yards of the trail he shouted, "Fuck it!" and started running.
Wearing jeans and cowboy boots, he was more like bigfoot stomping away as if he had a raging case of diarrhea and the nearest shitter was at the top of the trail.
That, my friends, is comedy.
My wife was in tears, she was laughing so hard. After our rather public spectacle, the other tourists on the trail kept a healthy buffer space between themselves and us.
Probably wasn't a bad idea.
After getting our fill of history and the antics of bigfoot, we set off again.
On Highway 666.
That can't be good.
Sure enough, we're cruising along and I move to pass another car. As I shifted up while passing, the fucking knob on the stick-shift came off in my hand!
SSSSHHHHHHIIIIIIITTTTT!!!!!
After a harrowing few seconds of trying to complete the shift without the knob and finish passing the car, we all breathed a collective sigh of relief, none worse for the wear except the puncture wound in my right palm from the knobless stick-shift.
We're on Highway 666 and I get a stigmata-like wound. Nice.
As we passed the sign for the Four Corners, my brother-in-law's wife asked if any of us wanted to stop there.
I shouted, "Not a fucking chance!" and my wife restrained herself from climbing over the seat and delivering a beat-down for even suggesting it.
We continued on into Arizona; the highway here runs mostly through a Native American reservation. We had been warned not to commit any traffic violations while on Reservation land; they had their own laws and could arrest you for the smallest of infractions, take all your stuff, and leave you stark naked in the middle of nowhere. Or something like that.
I can't remember what genius bestowed that bit of wisdom on us. Anyway, it didn't stop us from egging my brother-in-law on to moon a tour bus full of senior citizens as we passed it.
Nothing like a pressed ham on the highway to brighten your day.
Of course, said tour bus passed us a short time later, then came to a screeching halt right in front of us to barely make a turn-off.
Old farts... damn-near killed us. To this day, my wife giggles every time she recalls my choice words after being nearly run off the road. Though I don't remember the exact sequence of the words, I am quite certain it contained a varied mix of: shit-head, monkey-fucker, damn, hell, cock-sucker, asshole, bastard, and more than a few others.
Fortunately for my passengers, the remainder of the drive that day was uneventful.
After setting ourselves up at a hotel in Flagstaff, we grabbed a bite to eat at (god, I hate to admit this) the Sizzler. Over dinner we briefly entertained the idea of detouring to the Grand Canyon next. However, we consulted a map and the idea was quickly poo-poo'd as it would take away from time in Vegas.
Note: Highway 666 has since been renamed to 491. Why? People are superstitious morons.
I suddenly had visions of my wife as Darth Vader, using the Force to choke the shit out of some belligerent underling.
We were on the road at a decent enough hour that we decided to stop at Mesa Verde. The weather was much better than the last time we were here, and more of the park was open.
And no terrifying driving conditions.
I'm a little bit of an archaeology wanna-be (yeah, the worst kind of geek), so I really found the ruins fascinating. It utterly amazes me how little is known of the people who once lived here. I could get into some long-winded discussion and speculation at this point, but you'd stop reading out of sheer boredom and disinterest.
One of the sites we stopped at (Spruce Tree House) had a steep, paved, switchback trail that led down to the ruins. It was a nice stroll down and then around the ruins, but the hike back up was brutal. It seemed like the trail would never end, and it kept getting steeper and steeper.
It got to be too much for my brother-in-law and he cracked. Near the final fifty yards of the trail he shouted, "Fuck it!" and started running.
Wearing jeans and cowboy boots, he was more like bigfoot stomping away as if he had a raging case of diarrhea and the nearest shitter was at the top of the trail.
That, my friends, is comedy.
My wife was in tears, she was laughing so hard. After our rather public spectacle, the other tourists on the trail kept a healthy buffer space between themselves and us.
Probably wasn't a bad idea.
After getting our fill of history and the antics of bigfoot, we set off again.
On Highway 666.
That can't be good.
Sure enough, we're cruising along and I move to pass another car. As I shifted up while passing, the fucking knob on the stick-shift came off in my hand!
SSSSHHHHHHIIIIIIITTTTT!!!!!
After a harrowing few seconds of trying to complete the shift without the knob and finish passing the car, we all breathed a collective sigh of relief, none worse for the wear except the puncture wound in my right palm from the knobless stick-shift.
We're on Highway 666 and I get a stigmata-like wound. Nice.
As we passed the sign for the Four Corners, my brother-in-law's wife asked if any of us wanted to stop there.
I shouted, "Not a fucking chance!" and my wife restrained herself from climbing over the seat and delivering a beat-down for even suggesting it.
We continued on into Arizona; the highway here runs mostly through a Native American reservation. We had been warned not to commit any traffic violations while on Reservation land; they had their own laws and could arrest you for the smallest of infractions, take all your stuff, and leave you stark naked in the middle of nowhere. Or something like that.
I can't remember what genius bestowed that bit of wisdom on us. Anyway, it didn't stop us from egging my brother-in-law on to moon a tour bus full of senior citizens as we passed it.
Nothing like a pressed ham on the highway to brighten your day.
Of course, said tour bus passed us a short time later, then came to a screeching halt right in front of us to barely make a turn-off.
Old farts... damn-near killed us. To this day, my wife giggles every time she recalls my choice words after being nearly run off the road. Though I don't remember the exact sequence of the words, I am quite certain it contained a varied mix of: shit-head, monkey-fucker, damn, hell, cock-sucker, asshole, bastard, and more than a few others.
Fortunately for my passengers, the remainder of the drive that day was uneventful.
After setting ourselves up at a hotel in Flagstaff, we grabbed a bite to eat at (god, I hate to admit this) the Sizzler. Over dinner we briefly entertained the idea of detouring to the Grand Canyon next. However, we consulted a map and the idea was quickly poo-poo'd as it would take away from time in Vegas.
Note: Highway 666 has since been renamed to 491. Why? People are superstitious morons.
bigfoot finishes the race
online now
Comments:
bmccosar (April 12, 2008. 05:00pm)
I'd bet they renamed Highway 666 because . . . well, I can't think a single metalhead here in town who wouldn't steal the sign. Replacing all the road markers every few weeks had to get tiresome.